


I'm Not That Man

by AvenuePotter



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jewish Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvenuePotter/pseuds/AvenuePotter
Summary: Frank Frink inadvertently finds himself at a house of ill repute on his way to the Nazi Embassy to assassinate the Crown Prince of The Japanese Empire and finds kindness . . . kindness and a shared secret.
Relationships: Frank Frink/Original Female Character(s), Juliana Crain/Frank Frink
Kudos: 6





	1. . . . Who Finds Himself in a Place Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: This is based on an alternative history where racial slurs leftover from World War II are still intact. This fic reflects the universe it is set in.

“Damnit,” Frank mutters to himself, clutching his arm through his coat. This had not been the best time for his friend Ed to have shot him, accident or no. He needs to do what must be done. He’s got to make it to the Nazi Embassy. Blood starts dripping down his hand. “Shit.”

He furtively looks around, hoping there’s no Kempeitai nearby to notice this latest development. There are some, but they aren’t looking at him. He ducks into an alleyway that is/was a part of Chinatown depending upon how you looked at it. It’s a rat’s nest now. He should be able to find some place to hide until he figures out what to do about his bleeding. But he doesn’t want to go in too far.

Since the end of the war, the Chinese had it just as bad as the Americans. No, probably worse. So much of their once vibrant country was occupied by the Japs now too - and so many more millions of their countrymen had been killed. But some were still here, trapped in the Pacific States. In San Francisco they had staked their claim in Chinatown, if only through subterfuge, by making it an impossibly difficult maze to navigate. The Kempeitai go in . . . but they don’t always find their way out. Insurrection by city planning – or lack thereof. Nips don’t like chaos.

A door swings open, easily missed among the other nondescript entryways in the seedy alleyway.

“Psst. Get inside.”

Frank looks up, confused. He’d been concentrating on walking in a straight line while keeping his bleeding under control. The pain is getting a bit more intense.

He sees an impossibly tall brunette standing there in what is obviously a wig when viewed in the daylight. She’s quite stuffed into her gaudy corset and tatty robe and her stockings look like they must have been war rations leftover from a decade ago. He stares at the doorway she’s standing in – old time vaudeville music is playing inside. This is apparently a place of ill repute and he’s got places to be.

“No thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be a hero,” the woman growls. “I can see you bleeding from halfway down the street.”

Frank grips his coat arm even tighter, a bit panicked. He can’t afford to get picked up by the Kempeitai again. “Shh. . .”

“Get your ass in here so I don’t have to shout.”

Okay then.

“We can’t have you bleeding out all over the street and getting caught,” the woman says after firmly closing the door behind him.

“Getting caught?” Frank asks, suddenly feeling even more anxious. Why would she care? Does she think he’s part of the Resistance?

Ignoring his question, she says, “Name’s Bernadette,” and pulls the mass of curly brown hair from her head and the net underneath. She tosses them unceremoniously towards the coatrack by the door and they land perfectly. Then she shakes out her real hair. It’s still brown, just thinner, shorter and uglier. And her makeup seems even gaudier without her wig. “Lie down.”

“On the couch?” Frank asks.

“Where else, Mister?” Bernadette yells upstairs, “Clemmie! We’ve got a good Samaritan down here.”

“Look, I’m not part of –”

Bernadette winks. “I know.”

“No, real –”

“ **I** **know**. We don’t talk around here. Don’t worry.” She puts a hand on his chest and motions for him to settle down on the couch. Then she gives Clemmie, who's just come downstairs, a pointed look. “It should be easy enough to understand why.”

Frank turns to look at Clemmie himself. A halo of white blond hair surrounds her head – and she has eyes the exact same color as Juliana’s. It makes him uncomfortable and he looks away. She can’t be much more than a girl.

“We are absolutely discreet about our clients’ various proclivities,” Bernadette says. “And in return they keep **our** secrets, which keeps us in business. Now, we’re going to fix you right up so you can get back to that important task of yours.” Her eyes flick down to the pocket of his coat where his gun is. “We can take that.”

“What?” He’s not giving up his gun.

“Your coat.”

He holds it tighter about himself.

“Look, I need to get to your arm to fix it and you look like you’re about ready to faint. Take off your coat and –"

Frank touches his shaking hand to his forehead – it’s clammy. She’s right - he really doesn’t feel all that well. Before he knows it, Bernadette has lifted him up and deposited him on the couch.

“Okay, then, that’s that. Clemmie, you got the drugs?”

“Where’s my coat?” Frank asks, in a panic.

“Still here,” Bernadette says calmly and places a hand on his uninjured left arm. It still has a coat sleeve on it - only his injured arm is bare and she’s got his wrist in her hand now. Somehow, she’d managed to remove half his coat and shirt while lifting him up into the air and dropping him back down on the couch. How had that escaped his notice?

“Okay now, you just relax,” Bernadette says, shaking his wrist gently. “Deep breaths. Clemmie here had wanted to be a nurse, so I’m going to let her handle the injection.”

“Had wanted to be . . ?” Frank asks.

“Shh . . .” Bernadette says, swabbing an area on his arm with alcohol. “Let Clemmie concentrate.”

Frank gulps, wishing there didn't have to be a need to let someone who’s pricking him with a needle ‘concentrate.’ But surprisingly, Clemmie is gentle and the initial pain at the injection site isn’t so bad - and it’s over quickly.

“There now,” Bernadette says. “We’re going to give that a minute to numb up and then I’m going to stitch you right up.”

The pain is lessening and Frank is already beginning to relax in their care. “Clemmie?”

“Yes?” the girl asks.

“You did a great job.”

She smiles proudly, if a bit shyly, and puts her head down. “Thank you, mister.”

“The Pons were idiots to lure her in and just let her natural talents go to waste,” Bernadette says wryly, finding her makeshift suturing kit among the box that Clemmie had brought down with her. The girl settles in to watch the procedure, sitting with her legs crossed on the floor in front of the couch.

“What happened?” Frank asks.

“Well, Clemmie here responded to an ad. Japs said they were looking for girls to become nurses at some rehabilitation center.”

“White girls?” He’s surprised.

Bernadette nods. “As long as they were docile the ad said.” She looks over at Clemmie with a warmth that is tinged with great pity. “And Clemmie most certainly fit that bill.”

“I thought they would train me to become a nurse even though I hadn’t finished my formal schooling yet. The ad said so explicitly,” Clemmie says, then looks down. “But that’s not why they put it out.”

“It was targeted to certain girls in the Neutral Zone, to flush them out. It found Clemmie in North Bend.”

“It had been my dream . . .” Clemmie sounds so sad, so betrayed. “I only ever wanted to take care of people.”

The suture needle goes in. Frank barely notices it except for its oddly curved shape.

“Well, you’re taking care of people now, Clemmie.” Bernadette takes a moment to place a hand on hers. “Here. With us.”

The girl nods, yet a darkness clouds her eyes as she steadily holds Frank’s gaze. It fades the longer he looks at her and eventually the ‘angel’ reappears, her whore’s mask.

He shivers.

It’s clear that the Pons have put this sweet girl through the wringer too, and this just reaffirms that he is on the right path today. He needs to drive a sword through their hearts, hurt them where it counts - all of them - so that there will be no more Clemmies, no more Lauras, Johns and Emilys. 

No more Franks.

Clemmie turns to speak to the large woman sitting beside her - the one who absolutely dwarfs her. “Please show me what you’re doing, Bernie.”

Frank lays back and closes his eyes, blocking out their conversation. He needs to stay focused on getting to the Nazi Embassy and killing the Nip Prince. Nothing will ever change if he doesn’t. What they had done to his sister Laura and her kids had been unforgivable. What had happened to him in that cell paled by comparison. Bottom line, Japs will hurt anyone who isn’t of their own ilk and not even think twice about it. Look at Clemmie, here. She’s practically a child, working in a whorehouse - because of THEM. A victim of their mind games. As was he . . .

_Juliana Craine._

_Is it worth dying for her?_

_A woman who doesn’t even love you?_

_Think it over._

_But don’t think too long._

The picture they had taken of Laura, John, and Emily burns against the inside of his eyelids, the one Inspector Kido had dropped on the floor of his cell at his feet. He had taken too long.

“Done!”

Frank’s eyes fly open just in time to see Bernadette as she bends forward to cut off the end of the suture with her teeth.

“Don’t you have scissors?” Frank asks, a bit alarmed.

“I believe a little spittle is healing.”

Yuck.

“Not a convert to germ theory, then?”

That gets a belly laugh out of Bernadette. “Let’s get you up and taken care of now.”

“Taken care of?” Frank asks, sitting himself up. Isn’t she done?

“What’s your pleasure?” asks Bernadette.

Frank blinks his eyes - once – once he realizes what she’s asking. “I’m not here for a good time.”

“It’s on the house,” says Bernadette. “Anything for the Resistance.”

Frank starts to stand up. “Look, I’ve got places to be –"

He feels a little woozy.

Bernadette helps him sit back down on the couch – he hasn’t put the rest of his shirt or his coat back on. Frankly, he’s still a wreck even though his arm feels great now thanks to the drugs.

“You need some TLC. We’ll get any wounds you need tended to –” Bernadette gingerly touches a couple of the marks on his face. “- and get you some sugar, honey.” Her hand comes to rest on his cheek. 

Frank pulls his head back from her caress. “Those are old wounds." But they’re not that old. “I’m not sure I need –”

“Pick your poison,” Bernadette says firmly, interrupting him. “We’ve got brunettes –”

Frank makes an odd choking sound when she says that and looks down as the sight of Juliana’s chestnut hair spread over his pillow races through his mind. “No.”

“Perhaps you prefer blondes?” Clemmie asks, sounding innocent, yet plopping herself in his lap like the harlot she is and wrapping her arms about his neck. She sports an adorable little pout. But her eyes . . .

“Blondes are fine,” Frank says, removing her from his lap gently. “But, I’m sorry Clemmie, your eyes are too blue for me.”

“Not a problem,” she says brightly, not showing any offense. “We may have just the girl for you. What do you think, Bernie?” she says, turning to the older woman.

“Obviously, the man wants a woman whose carpet doesn’t match the drapes.” Bernadette nods knowingly. “A movie-star type.”

“And I know just the gal!” Clemmie says excitedly and claps like a little girl. “Lemme see if she’s available.”

This den of iniquity seems to be as vacant as a spinster’s womb at this hour, so Frank’s pretty sure whoever she is will be. He begins to put himself back together, one sleeve at a time. It should hurt more, but it doesn’t. However, the stitches snag on his shirt and get jostled again as he pulls his coat over them. “Look, you really don’t have to –”

“I _insist_ ,” Bernadette says, towering over him. “You don’t get to leave this place until you’ve had some sugar. You’re in no shape to do anything else.”

Truth be told, he’s been a little intimidated by the large woman from the start and he doesn’t feel like crossing her now. But he’s not really that type of man. Or is he?

He only thinks about it for a second.

Fuck Juliana. She left him and he’s got nothing left to live for after what happened to him and his family in Inspector Kido’s ‘care,’ regardless of his buddy Ed’s insistence to the contrary.

Frank decides that he’s open to seeing where this leads to. Maybe he really _is_ that man.

“Fine,” he says.

Clemmie comes bounding back down the stairs and says brightly, “Golda’s available. You’re going to just love her, I can tell.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you’re her type.”

Frank hides his mouth behind his hand. Isn’t she supposed to be selling Golda to him as _his_ type? Poor Clemmie really is too young for all of this. Bernadette helps him stand up and walks him to the stairs.

“I can get upstairs on my own.”

Bernadette frowns. “Actually darlin' - you can’t. I’ve seen you almost plant your face into the ground twice now. You’re lucky I’m not carrying you up.” She yells back at Clemmie. “Hey! Grab a pitcher of orange juice.”

“Coming right up!”


	2. . . . Who Deserves to be Hurt

At the top of the stairs, a dark-complexioned woman dressed like a diva from a bygone era sashays by. Not a moment later another one does. They look incredibly alike and even their white dresses are the same except for their different accent colors. Frank can’t help but do a double take when they reach the end of the hallway and disappear from sight.

“That was May and Isabelle.”

“Huh.” Frank is still hung up on how alike they look. They’re even the same height.

“Twins,” Bernadette confirms with a nod. “Quite popular with the men. Together or on their own.”

Frank contemplates that word ‘together’ for a moment. “But they’re sisters.”

“Exactly,” Bernadette says with a knowing nod. “The ultimate fantasy.”

Frank shivers, suddenly very uncomfortable.

“We’re a specialty house,” Bernadette says matter-of-factly and knocks on the door they’ve come to.

What does that mean?

The door opens and Frank lets out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

Movie-star type indeed. Golda saunters over to the door wearing a solid gold get-up straight out of the twenties with long, golden Veronica Lake hair to match. Just like the faded movie star’s hair, it's bleached and wavy but still beautiful. So are her big brown eyes.

And she’s NOTHING like Juliana.

Frank entertains the thought that perhaps it might not be so bad to be held in a woman’s arms one last time before he heads out to do what he has to do.

“Hey there, sugar,” Golda purrs with a Southern accent and draws him into the room. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Clemmie, go ahead and set that down over there.”

Frank doesn’t even see what Clemmie’s doing with the pitcher of orange juice because Golda’s slowly disrobing him, and not just with her eyes. As she hangs up his jacket, he can’t help but notice that she’s full of soft curves everywhere that Juliana is strong and lean. Fucking Golda wouldn’t be anything like fucking her.

She unbuttons his shirt, still smiling up at him, using the pretense of wanting to see the wounds the Japs had inflicted upon him. Remembering that whatever this is supposed to be will be ‘on the house,’ he stays her hand and says, “You don’t have to do this for me, you know.”

“We like to take care of the boys in the Resistance.”

“But I’m not –“ Frank looks around and switches to a hissed whisper. “- I’m not a part of any of that. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

She nods. “Okay then." Golda pauses and looks at him carefully, then closes the door. 

"Just let me clean you up and get you some sugar, then.” She inspects the stitches along his arm with her fingertips. “Not sure that’s going to hold, seeing as its just sewing machine thread, but that’s Bernie for you. She works with what we got.”

“Get me some sugar?” Hadn't she just agreed -

Golda indicates the pitcher of orange juice. “It’s Bernie’s special remedy – for just about everything.”

“Oh.” Frank feels a bit foolish.

He sits down on the bed, bare from the waist up, and lets Golda inspect him. He still has bruises and marks from the repeated canings the Kempeitai had given him while he had been in their custody, but superficially at least, they’re on the mend. So, there’s really nothing for Golda to tend to unless his busted lip breaks open again. She goes over and pours him a huge glass of Bernadette's special remedy.

“Bernie was right. I think you really need this.”

How bad does he look?

“Make sure to lie down now when you’re done, hon.” She fluffs the pillows for him. “The orange juice will help you recover.”

“So where are you from?” he asks, following her instructions.

“Georgia.” She grabs some soothing balm and a relatively wet cloth from on top of her dresser and takes a seat beside him.

“What are you doing in the Pacific States?”

“A girl named Golda can’t exactly survive for long in the Greater Nazi Reich, you know. So I left, knowing I’d have a better chance over here.”

“So, Golda’s your real name then?” He hadn’t expected that. She begins cleaning the blood off his hand and arm gently. Her tender care feels really good.

“It’s my heritage. Men looking for something in particular know to ask for me by name.” She shrugs. “There’s a market over here for Jewish girls. Even in the Pacific States we are a rarity. Some men are looking for a ‘nice Jewish girl’ with no strings attached and others . . . well, not so much.”

He catches her slight frown before she turns away. And before he can ask her what she’d meant by that, she puts the jar of balm down on her nightstand and stands up to return the cloth to its bowl on the dresser and start going through his coat. He gulps – his Colt .45 is in one of the coat's pockets.

She sees his nervousness and says, “Standard procedure, honey. I gotta make sure you’re not a threat to me or any of the other girls.”

When she uncovers the Colt, she pulls it out and throws it on the bed. He picks it up protectively. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“I know it is, sugar,” she smiles and laughs. “I ain’t afraid of no antique.”

He stands up and goes to put it back into the pocket she’d just removed it from, but then Golda lifts out the necklace Juliana had left behind. A golden heart on a golden chain that she’d just left dangling for him to find in the bleak emptiness of their home.

Golda holds it up to the light, inspecting it more carefully. “Who’s this for? Your girl?”

“No,” Frank says, every muscle in his body taut, his jaw clenching. “She didn’t want it.”

Golda looks up at him, surprised. The heart swings on its chain as it dangles beneath her fingers, glinting in the soft sunlight coming through her window. “But you’re not that man. I can tell.”

“Not what man?”

“A man a girl would want to leave.”

Frank holds out his hand for the chain and returns Juliana’s necklace and his Colt to the pocket in his coat. Then he hangs his head in defeat. Yes he is.

“Hey,” Golda says, lifting his chin. “I don’t know who you are, but –"

“Frank.”

“Frank,” she says, trying out his name on her tongue. “Look, I may not know you just yet, but I can tell that you’re not the type of man who doesn’t deserve to be loved.”

His chin quivers as he tries to hold it together. He’s been trying to hold it together for days now. The tears are on the brink of falling, but he refuses to let that happen. Not now. He barely manages to say, “How do you know that?” It comes out like gravel.

Golda doesn’t answer him with words. Instead she begins unbuttoning his pants and he lets her. She’s not Juliana – not in any way. And in that moment, he realizes that this is what he needs. This could be his last human contact, the last human touch he has before he’s sacrificed in the name of change. He wants it to be a soft one.

His lips crash into hers.

* * *

“You know, they say diamonds are a girl’s best friend –" There’s a mischievous twinkle in Golda’s eye. “But I prefer pearls.”

Her slick breasts envelope Frank’s cock, the petroleum jelly she’s coated them with allows them to swirl around it effortlessly. He’s never felt anything like it before. She’d expressed surprise to see that he wasn’t circumcised, but now she eagerly licks the tip of his cock each time she dips down to meet it and it unfolds from his foreskin. She takes her time as she swirls her tongue around it . . . prolonging his pleasure.

Eventually, Frank moves her into a different position and Golda thinks he’s going to straddle her and continue. She even presses her ample breasts together in anticipation of receiving his cock. But instead he parts her legs and she smiles, giddy, expecting him to -

He surprises her once again by softly kissing the arch of her tiny foot. She hadn’t taken him for a foot man. But then again, she’s not sure he really is one because after just one kiss, he proceeds directly along the inside of one of her legs with a trail of kisses, ending with his finger circling the apex between them.

“Oh!” She hadn’t feel pleasure like that in ages and starts to sit up.

“Shh . . .” Frank encourages her to lie back down. “You’re the type of girl who deserves to be loved too, Golda.”

Now it’s time for the tears to shine in her eyes. No one had ever –

One of his fingers slides in gently and she arches back. And then there’s two.

As he strokes her with his long fingers, Frank whispers in her ear, “You do. Trust me.”

She nods, wishing that to be true. But she can’t accept it. So instead, for now, she’ll just accept these intense sensations that Frank is eliciting within her as his hand grows slicker and slicker and her excitement builds. She hadn’t even needed the jelly to minimize the pain. There is no pain with Frank – only pleasure. He heads down to kiss her belly and breathes upon her mound. He’s not going to -?

No, he’s not. But his thumb finds the place his finger had been circling earlier and she almost jumps out of her skin. His hand moves to her hips to steady her as his fingers begin to curl inside of her, finding another spot of pleasure she hadn’t even known was there.

How in the world had he known about it?!?

Golda looks up at Frank, so vulnerable as she lets out an involuntary moan. Frank’s face is as serious as a heart attack, intent on the job at hand. She’s close and he knows it, her brown eyes swimming with pleasure she hasn’t felt since –

She’s not Juliana. This is what he wanted, it’s what he needed. The ladies here had been kind to offer it. Golda eyes aren’t like Juliana’s – not even close – not in shape nor color nor size. Neither was her hair or her softness. She’s so different. She surrenders easily to his caress . . . there’s no barriers to break down, no give and take.

He drives it home.

“Frank! Oh My God! Frank!”

When Golda cries out, he’s somewhat surprised that it’s his name on her lips. With all the men she’s had, how could she even remember his?

When it’s all over, Golda’s a wet mess and she sits up to hug him. Is she crying?

“No one has ever –“ she begins and he interrupts her to pull back from their embrace and kiss her deeply. When they part, he’s a bit out of breath, yet repeats what he said to her earlier. Firmly. “You deserve to be loved, Golda. Don’t lose sight of that. Someday things may change around here and you’ll be able to find it.”

“And so do you, Frank,” she replies, gently taking off his glasses and setting them on the nightstand. It’s his turn now. She lies back and parts her legs to receive him.

He positions himself before her and kisses her once more before entering her gently, making her gasp with surprise yet again. Men that show up here looking as haggard as he had are usually rough and tumble - if not downright brutal - as they work out their grief on her body. She knows he needs that, a release from his own pain – she can see it in his eyes - yet he’s kind and gentle with her the entire time. Golda’s astounded that someone could ever leave such a man behind. What a tragedy.

Frank begins to sweat and Golda lifts a hand to his battered chest, his tortured heart. He hadn’t deserved such brutal treatment at the hands of the Japs either.

In his mind he can see the necklace he’d made for Juliana - that single heart on a golden chain – see it swing between them when she’d be on top, his hand buried in her hair. He remembers forging it for her, literally pouring his heart into the gold. He closes his eyes tightly against the memory. He can’t go back. She closed the door.

And it hurts like hell.

He burrows his way into Golda, this ‘nice Jewish girl,’ even deeper than before and his rhythm changes to a solid, steady one.

“That’s it, Frank,” Golda says, lifting her hand to his face as it contorts into a grimace. “Come on, sugar.”

He groans and thrusts hard once. Just once. Letting it all go. Golda holds onto him tightly and pulls his head down onto her bosom.

Everything about her is soft, so soft. His cock pulses deep within her as the release of his warmth joins them together as intimately as any man and woman can be. He knows that this was his final human connection . . . and it hadn’t been with Juliana.

He’s so goddamn disappointed.

As he withdraws, Frank realizes that no matter what Golda has said, he isn’t the type of man you love, the type of man you stay with. Or else _she_ would have.

He rolls over and covers his eyes with his arm.

“Oh, sugar,” Golda says, rolling over on top of him, immediately sensing what’s wrong. “I’m so sorry she broke your heart. You didn’t deserve that.”

“How do you know I didn’t?” Frank asks raggedly.

“I already told you - you’re not that man,” she says simply. “That was the fuck of the century.”

That makes him laugh. He can’t help it. He hasn’t laughed in days.

“Thank you, Golda.” He kisses the top of her head.

“No, I’m serious, you’re not that man,” Golda says again, knowing that he doesn’t get it. Her finger idly circles his chest along one of the few spots that isn’t still recovering from the sting of a Nip’s cane.

Frank stops her hand and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, no longer jovial. “Apparently, I am. She left me.”

“Listen,” Golda brings a tender hand to his face, careful not to aggravate any of his wounds there. They’re still quite fresh, despite what he's said.

How could someone do something like this to this gentle man?

When he’d come to her hot and ready, she thought he’d be looking for something rough, wanting to take out all the anguish he’d obviously been holding in so tightly, but instead he was gentle, loving. The most tender lover she’d had since –

“You’re not the type of man someone would want to hurt,” she says plainly, catching him in her gaze and not letting go.

Frank sits up and runs a hand through his hair, and then reaches for the cigarette that she provides.

“It wasn’t me they hurt,” he says.

“Oh?” she pauses before taking a drag on her own.

“My sister,” he says gravely. “They gassed her.”

“The Nazi’s?” Golda asks, perplexed. A shiver runs through her entire being as she realizes what he’s saying. “Here in the Pacific States?”

“No, _them_ ,” he says, glancing towards the TV that’s mutely playing news coverage of the impending visit of the Prince and Princess of Japan.

“Nips?”

“They gassed her in a conference room. With her babies at her side.” Frank looks down at the hand holding his cigarette and repeats quietly, “In a conference room.” His hand starts to shake. Good thing he hadn’t lit up yet. He puts the cigarette down.

“That’s horrible, sugar.” Golda sets her cigarette in an ash tray and throws her arms around him, rubbing his back. “Absolutely awful. They treat us like nothing more than animals. First the Nazi’s, and then the -”

“Us?” Frank asks, pretending not to know exactly what she’s implying.

“I was surprised to see that you weren’t circumcised, but you’re one of us, aren’t you?” 

“I – um . . .“ Frank stumbles as he tries to answer. Is he really a Jew just because it’s part of his heritage? Just because others say he is? Doesn’t _he_ get to decide that?

He’s not sure any more. About a lot of things.

“I only assumed you were because outside of the Nazis that find their way over here from the embassy, usually only ‘nice’ Jewish boys come looking for me.”

He hadn’t been looking for anything, but -

“What would a Nazi want with a girl like you?” That doesn’t compute.

“You don’t want to know.” Golda picks up her cigarette and takes a long drag. The ones who had worked the camps were the worst. It’s as if they trying to work out their guilt on her body, forcing themselves to remember that Jews are sub-human so that they can feel better about themselves. At least in their world.

“Actually, I would like to know.”

“Tell me about your girl.” Golda says firmly, dodging the subject.

After a moment, Frank realizes that he probably DOESN’T want to know the horrors that Golda’s Nazi clients inflict upon her. He looks down, remembering all those conversations with Juliana, why they hadn’t gotten married yet. She didn’t want to bring kids with his Jewish heritage into the world. It was still too dangerous, even now, even here. Deep down, he’d always known that, too, but regardless, her rejection of that part of him had always made him feel inadequate, somehow tainted, and not good enough. But after what had happened to his sister, her reservations seem justified. Why should he bring kids into this world?

He’s tired of this. So tired. Neither he nor Golda nor any other should be punished for who they are, what heritage they are born into. None of that should matter. None of them should have to have their innocent children murdered because of it. He can still see the horror of Laura’s children laid out together on that steely push cart with nothing more than a utility blanket to cover them. The quiet and still faces of John and Emily will haunt him forever. In the end, he hadn’t even been given their bodies to bury. It had stunned him to realize that the Nips were as cruel and unfeeling as the Nazis.

Frank hears Clemmie’s childish giggle out in the hallway and looks up at Golda’s closed door. “Why yes, I love to jump rope, Tanaka-san! Anything you’d like.”

He wonders what else Mr. Tanaka is going to inflict upon that poor child with that rope. Monsters.

He looks over at Golda. Her beautiful brown eyes are filled with tears.

“Golda, hey,” he says, caressing her cheek. “Please don’t cry.”

She nods and sniffs, but the tears fall anyway. “I just can’t believe it.”

“What can’t you believe?”

“That - that they were gassed . . .” His family. Laura and the children are still on her mind. “. . .this long after the war, by the Japs?”

She stops talking abruptly as a darkness overtakes her. A resignation. She drops her head and shakes it. “Actually, yes I can.”

Frank knows Golda understands how it is - she should understand why he must do what he needs to do. Will she know it was him when she reads about it in the papers?

He puts a comforting arm around her and changes the subject. “So . . . You guys see a lot of men from the Resistance?”

“Yes.” Golda wipes her tears. She’d stopped crying already, but they were still on her cheeks. “They just don’t always come for the sex if you catch my drift.”

“I didn’t come for the sex,” Frank says. He’d never visited a prostitute before in his life. “I was dragged in here.”

“I know, sugar,” Golda says. “And I won’t even charge you. We’ll just pretend you’re a Resistance man. And not a Jew.” She winks. “That can be our little secret.”

Frank nods as she reaches for the balm on her nightstand and gently applies some to his lower lip. In their passion, it had broken open again. He snuggles into Golda’s soft form, lying his head upon her ample bosom, trying to enjoy just one final moment of human touch, losing himself in the fantasy that he really _is_ that man. That man that someone would never want to leave, never want to hurt. And no matter how much he still loves her, unfortunately, Juliana isn’t that someone. She hadn't even been there to provide him this final connection before he hands himself over to death. His mouth turns down as he swallows that biter pill. 

When the Japs catch him, he knows they’ll torture him before they execute him, and their brutal touch doesn’t count. They’re as bad as the Nazis.

They’re not even human.


	3. . . . Who Kills Another Man

“You’re not that man.”

. . . who’s damaged beyond repair.

He pulls the Colt from his pocket and cocks it, determined to right the wrongs of this world. A bit of blood drips down the barrel – his stitches had not held.

“You’re not that man.”

. . . who deserves to be discarded.

He thinks about the necklace in his pocket. The gold one with his heart.

_Yes, I am._

A Japanese boy looks up at him. Innocent, afraid. Wondering what he’s going to do with his gun.

Frank looks down at the young boy, the humanity stretching between them, and sees himself fully reflected in his eyes.

What does the boy see? Does he see an inhuman monster?

Is that what he’s become?

“You’re not that man.”

He starts to put -

**BANG! BANG!**

Frank startles. He hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.

_Because he’s not that man._

As he flees the scene in the ensuing chaos, Juliana’s unwanted necklace is unwittingly discarded.

Lying there on the ground, alone, it waits for another time and place . . .

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Skittle479 for the 'medical assist' and TheBearSays for the beta.


End file.
